Of Dogs and Dead Consulting Detectives
by UsagiLovesDuochan
Summary: Looking back, John guessed things started to improve the day he decided to take the long route through the park. One and a half year after Sherlock's death John Watson has a fateful encounter that will turn his life once more upside down.
1. Chapter 1

Title: Of dogs and dead Consulting Detectives  
Part: 1/4  
Author: Usagi-Atemu-Tom  
Rating: PG  
Genre: General/Romance  
Warnings: Post Reichenbach  
Pairings: Sherlock/John  
Feedback: Please, yes, I love feedback! Constructive critic is especially welcome.

Summary: Looking back, John guessed things started to improve the day he decided to take the long route through the park.  
One and a half year after Sherlock's death John Watson has a fateful encounter that will turn his life once more upside down.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, everything belongs to the respective creators and of course the talented actors who gifted the characters with their great personality.

And not to forget, much thanks to Lee-Ann for suffering through my spelling mistakes and grammatical errors!

This first chapter is dedicated to my very dear friend Ace/Acü. Writing this helped me a bit to get over what I still feel.

* * *

Looking back, John guessed things started to improve the day he decided to take the long route through the park after a rather stressful day at work. It had been over a year since the incident that cost him the life of his best friend Sherlock Holmes. Life of course had gone on, no matter for how many weeks the former army doctor wished for the world to hold its breath until that one, fervently desired miracle happened and returned his best friend to him.

It never came to pass of course and while he still continued mourning for months following, he decided that at least the world did not need to know how much his heart was still broken by the loss. Therefore John Watson forced himself back into life, back into that dull existence where nothing would ever happen to him. A month after they carried Sherlock to his grave, he moved back into Baker Street. He helped Mrs. Hudson to pack a lot of Sherlock's things for the charity she mentioned before. Some few like the skull, the microscope or even some of Sherlock's favourite clothes that John could not bear to part from he kept for himself, hidden in a deep corner inside his wardrobe.

Sometimes, when the night was especially dark and his loneliness particularly unbearable he tended to dug them out, sitting on his bed surrounded by all the small things, basking in the memories of Sherlock and him they represented until the sun came up to announce a new day. Then he would put all the little treasures back into the boxes, hide them inside the little corner in the wardrobe, put on his happy smile and get ready for work, pretending for the world that he was indeed moving on.

When the first anniversary of a year since Sherlock's death arrived, John was fully back into life. He found work in a hospital three months ago, though he suspected Mycroft had his hand in the unexpected acceptance of his application. At the beginning he considered to decline the job, out of spite. He had never fully forgiven the older Holmes' involvement in Sherlock's discreditation. However, in the end he decided against turning down the job because it would have been unfair to Mrs. Hudson.

Unemployed and alone he had been unable to pay the full rent, yet the good soul refused to accept John's cancellation of the rental contract while at the same time not allowing a stranger to apply as flatmate to the former army doctor. The ease in the rent the old woman granted him had been not much of a problem at the beginning. But even when she said nothing to him, lately John noticed the signs that the financial disadvantage was catching up with her. He was not blind after all and he had a good teacher who taught him to not just see but to observe.

Therefore, when John got accepted in the hospital and suspected Mycroft behind it all, he resisted the urge to simply walk out and got to work instead. He paid off the full rent, even though at the beginning Mrs. Hudson certainly protested.

Of course with work keeping him busy, John soon started to live some kind of life. The pain of the loss he felt at the beginning eased with time. However, one year after Sherlock's death John knew he would never fully heal. He already suspected from the very beginning that his relationship with the consulting detective had been different from anything he had had before and now, one year past of his loss, his suspicions were confirmed.

He lost friends and comrades before in the army, during his stay in Afghanistan. He certainly remembered his first weeks back in London, when he was still dreaming of the war, of being shot, of friends dying. He remembered waking up in the middle of the night with a start, his mind fixed on the one or other friend and the sudden realisation that they were dead, as if it just occurred to him that moment, as if he had not known already when he witnessed their deaths in the front line.

However, those fits faded with time. Time passed and in the end they were simply his friends, fondly remembered. Not so much happened in case of Sherlock Holmes. Even a year after his best friend's death, John sometimes lay awake in the middle of the night, not thinking of anything, when all of a sudden, just when he was about to fall asleep, the realisation struck him like thunder. He was dead! His best friend, Sherlock Holmes was dead! It played like a mantra inside his head.

Sometimes those episodes happened even during day. A ride in the tube to work, when he was still waking up from getting out of bed too early. He would sit there, his mind mulling over nothing when all of the sudden his body flinched and he was wide awake, his mind stuck on the one single thought: Sherlock was dead!

Admittedly those occurrences lessened after months and even if they happened, at least John did not have to fight tears when he was surrounded by a crowd, away from the safety of his bedroom. Even if that meant he had to fall back on his military training, spending the rest of the day with his back ram straight and his face in an emotionless mask. However, inside he still felt a deep sadness every time it happened and while he was able to downplay it on the outside, he mostly ended up feeling depressed for the rest of the day.

Which was exactly what happened this day, hence his decision to seek isolation and distraction in Regents Park instead of going home where he knew he would be lost to his thoughts. John went into the park to watch people, observing them instead of seeing, making his conclusions about their behaviour and life. Of course he was aware what a far cry from the real genius he was.

Truth to be told, John was certain that had Sherlock been standing beside him, listening to his deductions, he would have shown him that small, superior little smile that told the doctor his friend was proud of his tries, but that while he still overlooked all the obvious signs, nevertheless it was certainly entertaining.

Oh how often John had done this in the beginning while deep inside wishing Sherlock would suddenly walk up to him, shaking his head and tell him how poor his performance had been. And then he would straighten before launching into his very own stream of deductions, stealing the former army doctor's thunder. And John would not have cared. He would have watched his best friend glowing in the spotlight while he admired his skills, letting the consulting detective bask in his praise.

Nowadays he thankfully did not end up in fits of bitterness after awakening from silly wishful thinking. It was a small comfort that all John now felt was sad amusement as he remembered his best friend's reactions fondly. And of course he was aware that his way of coping, the fact that he was still not over Sherlock's death, was not usual.

Not that anyone noticed anything being wrong with him. Who should, after all? Lately the former army doctor had few friends left. And those he had he saw even less. Mrs. Hudson of course was a given; she certainly did not allow him to isolate himself completely, not with inviting him for tea three times a week at least. But with one year already gone by, he suspected she saw their tea time as a little ritual now, something they became too fond of to break up. Especially since John sometimes was the one inviting her over instead of her having to drag him down to take a break.

The next in line was Mike Stamford. His old school friend from Bart's still took him out drinking now and then, though he had learned early on to never speak about Sherlock Holmes in John's presence. The one point Mike had going for him was the fact that he was one of the few who believed in Sherlock Holmes. It was the only time he had talked about the consulting detective a month after it happened.

"People are idiots, to believe the newspapers", Mike told John with surprising passion in his usually easy going voice. "Hell, the newspapers are idiots for printing it in first place. What do they know about Sherlock Holmes? Of course, we don't know him either, truth to be told, but if there is one thing I am certain it's that he never was a fraud, John."

That night John ended up dangerously drunk before getting into a fist fight with some other occupants of the pub they had been staying at. One of the many reasons why Mike learned to never mention Sherlock again in his presence, even now when they spent their pub time laughing and rowing in good friendly fashion with a controlled amount of beer shared between them.

His third, and if he was honest with himself, final friend left, was also his most complicated. Greg Lestrade and he had always gotten off well. From the moment they met, they realised they could share in the pain and the brilliance that was Sherlock Holmes. The D.I. and John spent even more evenings in a pub drinking their beer than he did with Mike Stamford, talking about the latest case Sherlock had - of course - solved brilliantly.

But Greg was the one who had been forced to arrest Sherlock, one of the many events that finally lead to the Consulting Detective jumping from a roof to his death. John knew it was irrational, far more so than his anger at Mycroft who should have known better. Yet, he could not help the small ounce of betrayal he felt over the Detective Inspector's actions in the aftermath.

Greg had known about his feelings, even if he never voiced them, and kept his distance out of respect. Maybe this would have been the first step to a rift forming between the two men, destroying their friendship. However ironically enough it was Greg being forced to arrest John one day that caused their friendship to mend over an unusual deal.

The former army doctor had been called to the police for questioning. Nothing drastic, at least he was not supposed to be a suspect, just a witness as the police started to unroll the first of many cases Sherlock had had a hand in closing.

Even though nearly every question felt like an insult to Sherlock's honour, John had been admirable keeping his temper in check. He swallowed every insult he wanted to throw at the unfamiliar detective questioning him. Yet he never got tired of forcefully emphasising with each word that Sherlock Holmes was NO FRAUD.

The detective didn't get it, of course. He was a fool anyway, they all were. They did not know Sherlock, so why should they act any different? The detective was mild mannered, simulating understanding, telling John that it was only natural to defend the one who he thought of as friend, even if he did betray and fool him.

In the end the only thing he accomplished was making the police believe he was an idiot, too blinded to see behind the mask of a swindler. Therefore John had already been in an especially foul mood when he ran into Greg, Anderson and Donovan on the floor on his way out of the interview room.

The Detective Inspector greeted him politely. Anderson scrunched his face, though he said nothing. It was Donovan who made the mistake of opening her mouth. John could not remember for the life of him her exact words. He remembered shreds like "I told you so", "you are an idiot" or "he was a damn fraud, when will you open your eyes." At that point Greg was telling her off rather strongly. But it was too late.

For the first time he could remember, John Watson had given in to the urge to hit a woman. Well mannered and raised as he was, he always restrained himself, reminding him of his good manners even when he met more than enough women that got on his nerves. But this had never been about him, this was about Sherlock. Her words hurt him, might have hurt his best friend, adding another reason for the jump. Simply put, her words were the last straw in a straining day where he already endured enough insults on his friend's behalf - he saw red.

When he looked back on it later, John could not deny that there was also a good portion of self loathing in his actions because he regretted never telling her off before; Sherlock of course had a sharp tongue and was never fully blameless in her dislike of him. It always seemed as if his best friend did not care about the sneers and the insults, but maybe, just maybe he had cared somewhere deep, deep inside his soul.

No matter the reason, the end result was the same. John found himself shouting insults at the shocked woman, the only reason he had not touched her being Greg and two more police officers who came out of nowhere, holding him down. Greg later told him there had been five, but two had been taken down by the former army doctor, who could not even remember it. He had had eyes for Sally only, his rage burning bright red. From that moment on there had been no love lost between the two of them.

John was arrested a whole night for attempted assault to a police officer. He did not know if it was Greg or Mycroft meddling in the shadows that bailed him out, but it was the D.I. who came in the morning to release him from his cell.

"For god's sake, John, what were you thinking?" Greg shouted, anger at himself and the doctor boiling over. John shrugged, his anger spent, leaving him feeling hollow and not caring about anything at all.

"I understand you of course, I really do", the Detective Inspector continued, "but you can't just go around hitting every man or woman that insults Sherlock just because they believe all that nonsense. Especially not if the woman happens to be a police officer."

"So what?" John countered sourly, shrugging his shoulders in an uncaring way. "I can, to an extent, understand other people, those who don't know Sherlock. But Donovan should have known better, she SAW his brilliance, Greg, even if he was never very tactful."

"God beware if there had ever been anyone less caring about social manners", the D.I. added with a rueful grin before sighing. "Look John, I know you're angry with me too and I certainly don't resent your feelings in this matter. They should have known better. Sherlock is no fraud, god help me where were days I doubted he was even human. But the sad truth is they had been envious for years while the rest simply believes what those fucking reporters wrote down. Without proof, they will never know better, and hitting a police officer won't change their opinion."

"So what are you suggesting?" John had asked with still a rather sour mood, though no longer aimed at the D.I. For a moment Greg looked surprised about his own words, before he seemed to realise that he indeed had a plan forming in his mind.

"Let's find the proof then, shall we?" he asked John rather boldly. "We cannot bring Sherlock back to life, but we sure as hell can try to clear his reputation, his memory. How does that sound to you, John?"

For a moment, he had felt a glimmer of hope, a spark of his stubborn nature, his will to fight. But it went just as quickly as it came when he realised one thing.

"How should we ever accomplish this alone, Greg?" John asked, voice tired. "You might be part of the police force, but don't tell me you are not already in enough trouble with the accusations of helping Sherlock all these years. And yes, I know about that, I can read the paper and I am not deaf."

Greg looked stunned before his faced hardened.

"My name has been cleared, Mycroft intervened", the Detective Inspector admitted before he added in a softer voice. "Besides we are not alone. Have you taken a look at your blog lately, John?"

The surprise he felt about the question must have shown on his face because Greg send him a small, painful smirk.

"I guess not or you would have noticed all those nice entries about the people who express their belief in Sherlock Holmes. I also know that neither his homeless network nor most of his former clients believe for a second what the papers have been printing."

"You've already started to investigate", John realised with a start and for the first time he felt awake, even alive. His blood roused, singing with the idea of a chance to clear his best friend's name.

"Yes, I have", was Greg's only answer and it was the start of a beautiful renewing of their friendship. Since that day, John and Greg had been working nonstop to prove every accusation any police officer or newspaper reporter made, to be false. Their work went on slowly, the stones put in their path by the people who disliked Sherlock for one reason or another not helping, but after one year John knew they had accomplished at least small victories, even if the memory of his best friend was still far from being cleared.

Sighing deeply, the former army doctor found himself thrown back into the present, sitting on a bench in the middle of Regents Park. He could not even remember how he got there, but it did not matter too much to him anyway. This occurred every now and again still and he could not help it at all.

Still partly lost in his thoughts, John never noticed the movements of the figure even thought it happened right in front of him in plain sight. By the time he realised something was occurring, it was already too late. The former army doctor had just enough time for his mind to register "dog" before something furry, warm and strong crashed into his body with a happy yap.

The dog, that 'attacked' him was of average high, not too big but also not small enough that he was unable to feel the weight of the animal as it sat down right in his lap, where it happily started to lick and sniff his face in a way of greeting.

Getting over his shock, John attempted to fight off the gestures of affection with hands and by trying to move his head away. It was a lost cause, of course.

"Woah, where the hell did you come from?" he wondered aloud after he finally gave up and allowed his attacker to sniff and lick him up too its heart's content. "Where is your owner?"

Finally pulling away, the dog jumped down to the ground where it began to affectionately rub its head against the former army doctor's knee. John took the moment of freedom to look around, hoping for some furious or maybe embarrassed human to run up, taking claim of the dog. But there was no one.

He saw a dark haired mother rolling her buggy along, happily chatting into her mobile phone, an old man feeding the birds in the park and a little bit further he was just able to make out a jogger with ginger hair doing his rounds. No one looked as if they were particularly worried about their dog getting affectionate with a stranger.

Feeling a bit lost he looked back towards the dog, now sitting well behaved in front of his feet, gazing at him exceptionally.

"Did you run away?" John asked again, though he could not help feeling stupid for talking to the dog at all. It was not like it could speak now was it? To his great astonishment, the dog jumped up to its four legs and let out two loud barks, tail waving eagerly as though in answer to his words. Blinking he stared at the animal with confusion written all over his face.

"Sorry, but I don't think I understand dog language", he joked weakly, letting out a small smile. The dog became restless, moving two or three steps, right, turning, stopping, then taking small steps again into the other direction. Once more the dog let out a bark, eyes lingering on John before stepping back and forth once more.

"Huh, do you want something from me?" the former army doctor wondered, already feeling more than silly about this. "Well, maybe we should take a small walk and see if we can pick up your owner somewhere, hm? Someone must be missing you terribly, I suppose."

He stood up and the dog immediately stood at attention, body language as eager as a dog could look.

"Well, let's go then, shall we?"

Again he felt really silly. As if a foreign dog would simply follow the commands it could not understand. But to his great surprise the animal did indeed follow him step by step. Sometimes it ran off to sniff here and there but it always returned to John with a bark and an eager tongue lolling out of its mouth, demanding pets and affectionate caresses.

Before he even knew it, he was enjoying the little stroll with his new found friend. He did not even notice how his mind had been taken out of his dark thoughts down memory lane. Instead he tried to see if and what kind of commands the dog would listen to.

They walked around until they reached the end of the park, nearing the streets. Here the doctor started to get nervous because he was unsure how much he could control the animal that was not used to his person, without a leash. Deciding it was safer to go back to the park and maybe consider calling animal shelter, he turned. But the dog did not follow.

Instead it sat down on its hind legs, looking at the doctor rather expectantly. John frowned, unsure what exactly might be wrong now.

"Well, come on, don't you want to go back to the nice, green park?" he wondered, but the dog stood up all of the sudden and walked forward in the direction of where he could hear cars and people. It stopped once more however, when it sensed John not following. The former army doctor was frowning, unsure how to handle the situation. He did not dare to take a step in direction of the streets, least the dog might take that as an invitation to continue its way towards danger.

On the other hand, he was of course afraid the dog might decide to do just that anyway if it got bored of John not following. Deciding to try for a third option, he crouched down where he stood, holding out a hand.

"Come here, dog", he ordered softly, trying for an enticing tone, before smacking his tongue. "Come to me, be a good dog!"

The animal seemed to hesitate, looking towards the main street twice, before it came to a decision. Barking like mad, the dog stormed towards him, crashing against his body where he was still crouching, nearly throwing him to the ground. John laughed, as the dog eagerly buried its head between his arms and his pockets as if seeking for affection or maybe a treat. He stroke the soft fur, already celebrating his victory when all of the sudden the dog pulled away, turned and ran right to the place it had stood last when John tried to tempt it away from danger.

He heard a whine followed by a growl, but it took the former army doctor a moment before he realised why exactly the dog was not barking as it had done before. There in its snout the animal held a wallet, a wallet that looked suspiciously familiar. Eyes widening John patted the pocked of his jacket that was supposed to hold his purse only to have his worst fears confirmed.

"My wallet!" he shouted, face becoming pale. His purse contained everything, from money to identification and he really did not fancy the idea of having to replace all his valuable cards just because a dog turned out to be a pickpocket.

"Oh you must be kidding me", he muttered before addressing the dog in a loud, strained voice. "Come on now, give me my wallet back!"

John held out his hand, taking a small step forward. The dog raised its tail, waving it eagerly, but it did not move. Smacking his tongue once more, waving his hands in invitation, he made another step forward. The dog's tail did not stop waving happily, but the animal itself took a first step back. John stopped for a second, hesitant, but when he watched how the dog took another step backwards anyway, its eyes focused on him.

Throwing caution to the wind, John stormed forward, hoping to get the dog by surprise. Luck was not on his side, however. Before he was able to reach the animal, it let out a yowl that sounded surprisingly eager and it turned and ran - straight towards the main street. John followed hard on its paws.

The former army doctor forgot everything else. His world narrowed down to the running dog, just a small part stayed slightly alert of his surroundings, keeping him from running into people or cars. He chased the dog over dangerous streets, both of them staying surprisingly in one piece. They went down tube stations, through dark and narrow alleys and over fences the dog could squeeze through while John had to climb most of them to follow.

He lost track of time, did not even wonder how it could be that he was able to follow the dog for so long when it should have been obvious that dogs usually had much more stamina and could run a lot faster than humans. Nothing of those facts mattered, however. The doctor simply kept his eyes on the dog and chased until finally, finally, what felt like hours, the dog all of the sudden stopped. It turned towards John, tail still waving and waited for him to slow down.

He stopped a few feet away from the animal, gasping for breath and unsure if it would run again if he came any closer. Instead, the dog simply sat down, looking at John expectantly. The former army doctor closed the gap and took his wallet with a sigh of relief. It was not until his hands grabbed the purse the dog willingly gave back to him that John suddenly realised that beneath his heavy breathing and exhaustion his heart was racing and his blood was singing in a rather familiar way.

Eyes wide in disbelief he stared down at the friendly dog, still sitting by his feet, looking up to him rather adoringly. That was until all of the sudden a sharp whistle disturbed the silence of the evening, causing the dog's head to perk up in attention. Tongue lolling out, the animal stood up and barked to John once before all of the sudden turning and running away, leaving the stunned man behind.

Everything happened so quickly that it never even occurred to the doctor to look around and search for the one who had let out the whistle, the one who seemed to be the owner of the dog. The dog who, for the first time after Sherlock's death, caused him to feel the adrenaline of a hunt, to feel alive as he only ever had when running besides his best friend, chasing murderers through the streets of London.

John stood there, in front of his home, eyes gazing after where the dog had vanished for a long, long time.

* * *

John never really knew what exactly happened that time he met the dog. But strangely enough, the next days found him yearning to return to Regents Park to see if the dog would be there again. He was unable to manage it though, because he had nightshifts coupled with some nasty mass accidents owing to the weekend. The work left him exhausted, too tired to take a detour through a park at half past four in the morning.

It was not until four days later that he was able to leave work in the early evening, feeling awake enough to consider the detour. To be honest he did not expect the dog to be there. After all, it had been days since they met and who knew why exactly the animal had been at that park all alone in first place. However, strangely enough he could not get rid of the feeling as if the owner had been nearby all the time.

When he arrived at the park the former army doctor was still slightly disappointed once he indeed did not see the dog anywhere. He had even taken the time before he went to work that morning to look up the race, finding out that his friend was an English Pointer. There were other people with their dogs walking by, though definitely different breeds. Some families were taking their excited kids towards the playground nearby and he believed he recognised the ginger haired jogger from last time, but sadly enough there was no familiar English Pointer.

Sighing in defeat John slumped down on the bank he sat last time, his gaze on the ground. Of course he did not expect the dog to be there, but still, he could not help the small hope he'd held. Sighing once more he decided there was nothing he could do but to face this was a once in a lifetime adventure and go home. Before he even started to rise from his seat, however he heard a loud bark, one he was already familiar with. Turning around he saw the English Pointer racing towards him from the other side of the meadow. John did not even realise he was grinning like a loon until the dog threw itself against his legs, barking like crazy, tail thumping in happiness.

"There you are", John exclaimed merrily, scratching the dog behind its ears. "And here I really thought I would never see you again. Did you miss me?"

The dog butted its head against his hands before running circles around him, barking nonstop. It took a long time for both of them to calm down but when they did, John was ready to walk around with his new friend as he had last time. And again he was looking out for the owner. However instead of thinking the English Pointer to be lost or out on its own as he had last time, John had the strange feeling that the owner was very much aware of the dog's whereabouts. Which seemed a strange occurrence in itself.

John had some time to think about what happened and he realised that with the chase he had with the dog it seemed a bit fishy that all of the sudden the owner turned up and ordered the dog to come. Of course, maybe the dog lived nearby and simply was satisfied to lead him close to make a point of something. However, the place John ended up at after the chase was only two streets away from Baker Street and with how often he walked around in the past he was sure he would remember a dog like this English Pointer living nearby.

For now it was not the most important mystery, however. For now John was strangely happy to see the dog again and walk with it through the park, curious to see what would happen. It didn't come as a big surprise when they reached the end of the park and the dog once more did not wish to turn back. It sat down, right at the entrance, looking at John, barking twice in demand. When the former army doctor hesitated to follow, the dog stood once more, staring. John had a strange hunch he knew exactly what this meant.

"You are not stealing my wallet again, okay?" he demanded warily, one hand vanishing in the pocket of his jacket where he kept his purse. The dog seemed to hesitate a moment before all of the sudden it stormed forward, attacking the doctor just as it had last time. Since John still had a strong grip on his wallet, the English Pointer was unable to get that one. Instead it found something else in the other pocket he forgot to protect.

Groaning, John looked at his phone held between the dog's teeth, wondering if it would even work when all was said and done. Sighing and shaking his head he decided to count his sheep when he got them. Besides, he found himself strangely excited, grinning at the English Pointer that was looking expectantly for his first move. Adrenaline coursed through his veins and without warning he dashed forward, starting the chase.

The pursue that followed was in a sense just like last time, and yet it was nothing like it at all. Where the dog last time dashed left from the park to the main street, it now ran right. They took a totally different route from there on. Also, while John had worried for his wallet during their last chase, he this time had the feeling the dog never planned to not give his phone back to him, therefore he was not really worried. At least not more than the thought of the device still working when it was returned to him.

However, even if he was not worried for his mobile phone, John still felt the urge to catch the cheeky animal, to be the one to get the upper hand. He could feel the adrenaline of the chasing pumping through him, letting him forget everything else. He did not know how much time past since the run started. He did not know where he was. He only saw the English Pointer running ahead, leading him through small streets, dark alleys and this time even through private grounds, though some of them were thankfully vacated.

When the dog finally stopped, John was very much out of breath again, and his body felt tired and covered in sweat. Yet he could not deny that he had not felt this awake for a long time, his heart still beating away on adrenaline.

"All right, mate, give it to me", John requested when he was sure the dog was not planning of being chased further. The English Pointer allowed him to take his mobile phone readily enough, tail waving eagerly.

"I bet you expect praise for your stunts, don't you?" the doctor wondered unperturbed, his lips twitching towards a smile. "Well, I am not sure if that is proper dog education, honestly."

Behind him John could hear a door being opened, but he did not really care until all of the sudden a rather familiar voice addressed him.

"John, when did you get a dog?"

Turning around, eyes wide it was only now that the former army doctor realised where he was. The familiar sight of Speedy's cafe right next to the door where he lived sat innocently in his line of sight. Mrs. Hudson was standing right inside the door to 221B Baker Street, a look of surprise on her face. But already, the elder woman seemed to be enchanted by the friendly English Pointer because she held out a hand towards the dog.

"Well and who are you, deary? John, you should have told me you got yourself a companion, after all shouldn't I as your landlady first give you permission to keep a dog in the flat?" she tried to sound stern, but already the soft smile on her lips betrayed her intentions as she greeted the happy dog who had come closer to demand petting from the old lady.

"Uhm, but Mrs. Hudson, that's not my dog", John stammered, his mind still reeling from the shock of the realisation that the dog had lead him right home on their wild chase through London. Before he could utter another word, however, two sharp whistles sounded through the streets and the dog cocked its ears. Barking at the two occupants of 221B it turned and ran up the street until it vanished behind a corner.

John, this time not as shocked as he had been after his first chase, took the time to look around the street for the one person who could have whistled, but there was no one there. Baker Street was looking back at him in its usual, busy evening hustle and bustle. Moreover with the English Pointer long gone, even all trace of the dog had vanished.

tbc...


	2. Chapter 2

Title: Of dogs and dead Consulting Detectives  
Part: 2/4  
Author: Usagi-Atemu-Tom  
Rating: PG  
Genre: General/Romance  
Warnings: Post Reichenbach, a bit of violence  
Pairings: Sherlock/John  
Feedback: Please, yes, I love feedback! Constructive critic is especially welcome.

Summary: After meeting the English Pointer for the first time, running with the dog through London became a rather exciting routine. But with the first kind of change in motion, further will follow soon.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, everything belongs to the respective creators and of course the talented actors who gifted the characters with their great personality.

And not to forget, much thanks to Lee-Ann for suffering through my spelling mistakes and grammatical errors once more!

* * *

John had to explain the story twice before Mrs. Hudson was ready to even believe the bizarreness of the incident. But after she did, life fell back into routine. It was a new, unusual routine however, because this one included the English Pointer John had met around a week ago. He continued seeing the dog and it became more bizarre from there on.

At first he always went to Regent Park every two or three days when he had no night shift. Every time the dog was there, waiting for him. And after their third meeting where the English Pointer stole his keys to use as a tool for the chase, the former army doctor decided to buy a nice little chew toy for dogs which he offered to his new animal friend as the item of chasing.

The dog accepted his offer easily enough and they continued running through London every time they met, always ending the chase either in Baker Street or at least nearby. The English Pointer stayed with John until they heard the sound of whistling, which called the dog home to its owner. Till now the doctor had not caught a glimpse of the person who called his dog friend.

The mystery got even weirder when John had to work night shifts for over a week, because they had been caught up in a flu epidemic that left them understaffed and overworked. Unable and too tired to visit the park even once within eight days, the former army doctor already feared that by the time he was able to go there again, the English Pointer would no longer be there.

Therefore it came as a great surprise when John woke up after an especially stressing nightshift and, stepping out of the door to go to the supermarket, a very familiar dog was standing in front of him, barking and crashing against his legs in happiness of seeing him.

"What the hell are you doing here?" John exclaimed surprised, eyes wide in disbelief. Of course the dog could not answer, but that did not stop it from grabbing the keys, the doctor still held in his hands and ran some steps forward, looking pointedly at John.

Cursing quietly for not having taken the dog toy with him - obviously since he had not expected to see it today - John resigned to his fate of chasing after his keys for the second time.

When the English Pointer and him returned to Baker Street, John had all but forgotten about his groceries and he was sweaty but satisfied. The dog still seemed to have energy after all the running while they waited for the call that would send the animal towards its owner. However, after standing outside Baker Street for nearly ten minutes and no whistling could be heard, the former army doctor became concerned.

"Where is your owner?" he wondered anxiously. The English Pointer moved its head to the side whining quietly for a second before it stood up and went straight towards the door of 221B. Barking, the dog looked at John expectantly until the doctor finally gave up.

"Okay, okay, let's go inside for a while, but only until your owner gives a sign of his presence, yes?"

The dog continued barking until John finally opened the door. The English Pointer was inside before he could even blink. Sighing he followed the eager animal and he could not deny the fond smile that played around his lips the entire time.

John's unusual guest stayed inside his flat till early evening and he was a surprisingly pleasant flatmate. Of course the dog had to run around first, sniffing at everything in childlike curiosity. But the worst he did was jumping on the couch John rarely sat on anyway, because for him it was Sherlock's place and he still treated most of the things his former flatmate used regularly with a certain distance, like an object of art that was not supposed to be touched.

After the dog lay down, it did not budge much anymore, only the tail moved excitedly every time John spoke to his unusual companion. Of course the doctor couldn't resist, while walking through his flat, making tea, preparing dinner, to stroke over the content dog's head every time he walked by the couch.

The man and the dog spent an easy afternoon until around evening they could both hear the shrill sound of whistling through the open window. Barking like mad, the English Pointer sprinted towards the door, scratching the wood with its front legs, waiting for John to open it.

"Yeah, yeah, I'm getting it", the former army doctor laughed walking at a leisure speed towards the door and opened it. Still barking the English Pointer rushed towards the front door, nearly giving poor Mrs. Hudson a heart attack, as she was just opening the door from the outside.

"John, the dog!" the elder exclaimed, her voice a fine mixture of panic and indignation as she watched the animal run along the street until it vanished behind a corner.

"Sorry for the scare, Mrs. Hudson", the doctor apologised sheepishly, taking one of the bags of her groceries that she let go of when she was nearly run over. "The owner just called. I guess it was time to go."

"Did that beauty spent the whole day with you, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked curiously walking towards her entrance opening the door.

"Yeah, I guess so. It's still not my dog, mind you."

"Well, if everything continues like this, I would advise you to reconsider your opinion of ownership, John", the old lady reprimanded amused. "I really have the feeling it won't be the last time you'll see the little beauty inside the flat, mark my words."

John laughed over her promise good naturally, trying to not think too much about it. However, in the end Mrs. Hudson was right. Weeks passed and John's acquaintance with the dog turned regular. It no longer mattered if he went to the park or not, the dog would find him anyway. Every second day the English Pointer would show up and spent some time with the former army doctor. Sometimes they just ran around London for a while before the owner called it back, sometimes the dog stayed in the flat.

Before he knew it John bought some dog food, feeding dishes and toys for his regular guest. He even sacrificed one of Sherlock's blankets he had kept, when the dog found it and ruined the piece of cloth by burying its teeth into it anyway. The whole behaviour of the dog was a mystery. Mrs. Hudson said so, as did Greg, when he was introduced to the English Pointer the first time.

If Sherlock had been here, John was sure he would have been itching to solve the mystery about the appearances, the owner and everything in between. But Sherlock was not here and without his best friend he did not feel the urge for mystery solving at all. Instead he was content for the companionship and the excitement they achieved with running through London.

The appearance of the dog into John's life was a good occurrence. However, after the first excitement about his new friend had calmed down, John noticed something else had changed in his life. Often he felt watched. John never got prove to his suspicion; it was a gut instinct, a tingling in his spine that he knew quite well from his army days and saved his life more than once.

Past experience was the main reason why he did not simply ignore the uncomfortable feeling. Instead he started analysing, trying to discern when the watching might have started. Soon he realised that it was around the same time the dog first showed up. Of course that caused his first thought about the identity of the watcher to be the mysterious owner, however he sometimes also felt watched on the days the dog did not show up. And sometimes he was even sure the stares came from more than one direction. He did not think the dog had more than one owner, therefore he dismissed the idea of it being that person.

And then he saw one CCTV cameras moving one day and he was sure he knew who the culprit might be. Mycroft Holmes had been trying to reach him for weeks now. There were three unanswered calls and around 50 phone messages. John had deleted them all without reading. Truth to be told he had been surprised the elder Holmes had not yet sent the usual black car or been waiting in front of his house.

It was one of the reasons he also deemed the messages not important. If Mycroft really needed to tell him something, he would find a way. The fact that he respected John's wish to not be approached was enough for him to guess Mycroft might just have been enquiring on his health.

None the less, the realisation that he was still being watched by the elder Holmes sent bad vibes down his spine and made John surprisingly angry. This should not have been anything new. He was aware that Sherlock's brother had been watching him since the day he shot the cabbie. And knowing what kind of stupid stunts Sherlock more often than not performed, putting them both into rather tight situations, John could understand the elder Holmes' need to an extent. He could understand even more than he liked the more he found out about his best friend's past abuses with drugs.

However, Sherlock Holmes was dead now and he really did not wish to be under surveillance twenty-four hours a day just for the rather unusual feeling of sentiment Mycroft seemed to be experiencing. Still, John was too proud to contact the man on his behalf. He made it a habit, however to take some time and glare into each camera he noticed following his moves.

It was not until two months later, when John was returning from one of his nightshifts, tired and in a rare bad mood, that found Mycroft Holmes waiting patiently in front of 221B. For a second he considered ignoring the elder Holmes, but then he realised that this was the best chance he would get to take care of his surveillance problem.

Giving Mycroft a disgruntled look, he granted the elder Holmes just enough time to open his mouth before cutting him off rather harshly.

"I honestly don't care what you have to say, Mycroft. To be frank I still don't feel like talking to you at all, but since you are here anyway I guess this is a good chance as any to tell you that I want the surveillance gone. I. Don't. Bloody. Care. For what reasons you decided to still keep an eye on me, but I. Don't. Want it. Therefore, get it off. Leave me alone!"

Breathing sharply after his little rant, he emphasised his words by looking at Mycroft with a face that would have certainly made Sherlock proud. Of course, the elder brother was rather unfazed at John's speech. In fact he did not even twitch a face muscle.

"I apologise for the inconvenience, John, but unfortunately, this is necessary", was the rather uninformative reply.

"I don't fucking care, get them away from me, Mycroft!"

"You don't understand...", but John interrupted long before he could end the sentence.

"And I said I don't care! Being watched is getting on my last nerves. I'm a big boy, Mycroft, I can take care of myself I don't need a babysitter. So, stop watching my every step or else!"

"Or what, John Watson?" the elder Holmes asked coolly. "What could you do?"

"I'm not sure yet, but I'll find something and if I have to look through Sherlock's things and see if he had a diary or something like that where he wrote down your dirty secrets."

John had shouted the last part and both men fell silent when the words sank in. It had gotten them by surprise, the fact that John mentioned Sherlock's name, especially in front of Mycroft. The elder Holmes was finally showing some signs of reaction, his shoulders sagged slightly.

"John", he started in a surprising tired voice, "there are suspicious people who are watching you. They are everywhere, all around you. Admittedly they already lessened from 20 men and women to around 15 for whatever reason there is, but fact is, they are still around and most of them are on a wanted list be it here in Europe or other continents. Something is going on, and it obviously seems to be about you. And then there is this strange dog you've been chasing around all London."

At these last words, John perked up a bit.

"Oh, you noticed my little buddy?" he asked, already realising that it was stupid to be surprised by the revelation. This was Mycroft bloody Holmes he was talking about. Of course he knew if he befriended a foreign dog. That man would know if he took a worm as his new pet.

"Yes, that dog of yours seems rather - extraordinary", Mycroft replied, tone bored. "And what a nice surprise that you meet a dog that continues to show up wherever you are up to and including your very own doorstep."

"Oh please, spare me the sarcasm, Mycroft, it doesn't suit you", John sighed, rolling his eyes, before curiosity got the better of him. "But tell me, if you already have me on surveillance, did you catch a glimpse of the owner?"

"No", Mycroft answered immediately and his voice was dead serious once more, "which is exactly what worries me. Whoever this dog belongs to knows exactly how to stay out of my sight, something even your stalkers have not accomplished."

"And you really think now, just because someone doesn't like being seen by you, that this person is out to get me?" the doctor asked and it was his turn to sound sarcastic. "I mean, please Mycroft, if that dog's owner wanted me dead, all he or she had to do was tell the dog to attack me. That English Pointer is well trained, I have no doubt it could be taught to attack on command. Yet, here I am, very much alive and with a new friend by my side."

"Yes, true, John, but this doesn't change the fact that something is going on, something big."

"And consequently you need to continue to watch me, to keep an eye on things."

"Precisely."

"I don't think so; stop watching my every step Mycroft!" John all of the sudden shouted, fed up. "As I've said, I can take care of myself. So, leave. Me. The hell. Alone!"

"John, you can't be serious", Mycroft protested, though he sounded the slightest bit unsure. It seemed even he had not expected for the doctor to explode like this.

"Oh for heaven's sake", John rolled his eyes exasperated. "Two weeks, Mycroft. Give me two weeks of peace and quiet. I'll be careful and I keep my eyes open. But I don't want to find a single CCTV following my every step. If you stay away for two weeks you may continue as you please afterwards. Do we have a deal?"

Mycroft looked at John, who was holding out his hand with a disgruntled face. However the fiery eyes and the strained jaw seemed to tell the elder Holmes what he needed. John was obviously striving to follow through with his threats and in the end the older sibling decided it was not worth the fight.

"So be it", he decided with a sigh. "Two weeks, John, and not a day more."

"Yes", the former army doctor nodded, eyes narrowed. "And you'll be sorry if I find a single CCTV or person of yours trailing me. The whole deal will be off that very second and you can stop bothering me for the rest of my bloody life."

"Noted", Mycroft answered dryly while John opened the main door to 221B.

"Don't worry, Mycroft, I am not helpless, I know how to take care of myself", John assured the man, even though he did not exactly look worried. "I'll keep my eyes open, just in case."

"It's all I can ask for", was the last thing the doctor heard before he closed the door in Mycroft's face.

* * *

After Mycroft's unexpected visit and the revelations of people watching him, John became more alert. Not only was he looking out for signs of Mycroft breaking his promise, but he also noticed that contrary to his personal opinion, of course the elder Holmes was right once more. There were indeed some suspicious people watching him.

So far, they had kept their distance. But John could feel their stares leaving him feeling far more unpleasant and alert than he had when Mycroft watched him. For now he continued with his usual routine. Work, home, meeting with Greg to rebut the accusations against Sherlock and of course running through London with the English Pointer he had befriended.

Even though he now was aware of his mysterious followers, they did not interfere. Therefore he tried to ignore them as best as he could. That was until about a week later the actions of his spies changed. John had noticed before that the number of people watching him reduced further within a few days. In fact, four days after his talk with Mycroft, he estimated only six people left. Two days before that he had counted nine.

Six days after the unwelcome visit, John had nightshift, leaving him to sleep in late. Since it was Sunday, he took his time with domestic puttering, catching up on little chores. It was already getting dark outside when he decided to leave the house for a walk. Unsurprised he found his dog friend already waiting in front of his door, tail eagerly waving. Smiling the former army doctor greeted the English Pointer before starting a light jog.

He still felt a bit tired from his latest shift and lazing around the flat. Therefore he decided it would be better to get themselves reacquainted with London's streets first before he felt awake enough to start another chase. The dog ran easily enough beside him, tongue lolling out, tail still in eager movement.

It happened when he turned into one of the smaller streets, which was already abandoned and silent. John would later admit to himself that he had been careless. His mind had been so busy wondering where to go this evening and where to start with the chase, that he did not notice the two shadows following him until he was all alone and perfectly out of sight.

If it had not been for his companions sudden halt, hackles going up and the dog letting out an surprisingly deep and threatening growl towards the entrance of the small street, John might have been taken totally by surprise. As it was, he barely had time to curse and grasp the presence of two men, not to mention the glint of at least one gun pointed at him, before instinct took over his actions.

The former army doctor did not think about the snarl that could be heard, followed by a cry of pain then whimpering and grunts of a starting fight. His instincts simply perceived the man with the knife as the greater threat left to him and he attacked. It was rather obvious by his movements that the man was a professional - if not killer, at least a fighter.

John certainly caught him by surprise with his quick actions and bold attack, but the man still succeeded in evading his fists. On the other hand, he was equally unable to succeed a hit on John, even with his knife. It was after all not the first time the former army doctor had to defend himself against an assassin. His time in Afghanistan taught him well and his time with Sherlock kept him on his toes and made sure he honed his skills.

They exchanged blows, both unsuccessful in hitting their target. It felt like ages as both men circled each other, looking for an opening. In the end, it was the sudden, piercing scream of pain from the men's companion that decided the fight. John had learned and trained himself long ago to not be distracted during a fight, to trust his comrades to watch his back.

It was no different here. While he did not have time to think, he instinctively knew that he had a partner in form of that marvellous, well trained English Pointer. Therefore as the scream came, he kept his eyes on his target. His opponent did not. For a few, precious seconds, his eyes flickered towards where he assumed his comrade to be. John did not need more for the opening and he did not care to fight honourably.

His first kick hit the man viciously between his legs. With a pained grunt, the attacker's knife fell to the floor. The next two punches hit the man in the gut and against the temple, rendering him unconscious almost immediately. Only then did John allow himself to register his surroundings again.

The fight, he estimated by a quick look towards the sky, could not have taken more than minutes, even if it felt like hours. His opponent lay at the ground, but so did his partner. The English Pointer was standing on the other man's chest, hackles raised, teeth barred and a horrible, frightening growl continuously coming out of its mouth.

The dogs nuzzle was red from blood and looking closer he could see the ugly wounds on the man's right arm, his left thigh and shoulder. The man was deathly pale, and his face a mask of pure, unconcealed horror. He was close to fainting, if from blood loss or the sight of the maniac looking dog John could not tell nor did he care. After all, just minutes before this man had been about to kill him with a gun.

Remembering the weapon, the doctor looked around until he found the gun lying far out of reach nearly under a dumpster. With the calmness of soldier, he went forward, picked the weapon up before pointing at with a calm hand towards his attacker. He had not needed to bother, though because by the time he paid attention to the wounded man again it was clear he had fallen unconscious.

Walking slowly towards the still growling dog, John put the gun inside his jeans before kneeling down a bit away from them holding out his free hand, while the other grasped his mobile phone already dialling 999.

"Hey, easy, buddy!" he talked to the agitated dog with a calm voice. "You did good there, you really did. But the threat is over, you can calm down now, you know. Come here, my little protector! Come to me!"

It was an obvious sign not only how very well trained the dog obviously was, but also that it seemed to have already imprinted on John very much because following his softly spoken command, the dog did indeed cease its attention towards their attacker and walked towards him, calming down. Whining just slightly, the English Pointer licked over John's outstretched hand before nuzzling against his full body.

The former army doctor did not care one bit that his clothes were now contaminated with blood. He simply stroke over the dogs head, praising him in a quiet, wondrous voice, only now slowly realising that this animal had just saved his life, before finally pressing dial on his mobile to call Greg Lestrade.

* * *

Half an hour later found John sitting at the edge of a rather familiar emergency vehicle, an orange shock blanket around his shoulders. His hands were absentmindedly buried inside the soft fur of the English Pointer, stroking the affectionate animal while talking to Greg.

"Shit John, that is a rather dangerous friendship you developed there", the D.I. cursed, voice rough. "If it hadn't been for your first aid, that man would have died from the attack."

John shrugged his shoulders, not exactly worried.

"I hope you're not planning to take the dog in and organise a trial against my new friend, Greg. After all it was simply protecting me. That man had been pointing a gun at me after all. If it weren't for the dog, I would have been the dead one here and I bet no one would have revived me."

Lestrade cursed some more after this, hands going through his grey hair in a gesture of helplessness.

"I know that of course, John. Shit I certainly do. And Anderson did take the required photos of the dog and blood samples. But still protocol would dictate me to keep the dog until everything has been surveyed and your statement confirmed."

"Will be hard to ensure", the former army doctor commented dryly because at that moment they could both hear the loud whistle of a person echoing through the evening. John did not try very hard to hold the dog. Before Greg or anyone else could even think to react the English Pointer had started running and was out of the alley, vanishing quickly within the masses of curious onlookers.

Groaning Greg put a hand in front of his face, before glaring at John half heartedly. The doctor shrugged once more, his face not even apologising.

"This dog saved my life, Greg", he repeated quietly. "I will state that a thousand times again if I have to, so please leave the dog alone."

Sighing the Detective Inspector look his friend over, before closing his eyes in defeat.

"I'll see what I can do, John. What about you, are you all right? Do you want to go to the hospital? Or should I accompany you home?"

He shook his head, sending a strained smile towards Greg.

"I'm fine, Greg", he assured, shrugging the blanket from his shoulders. "In fact, if you don't need me anymore I would like to go home. Though you don't have to bother escorting me. I'd like to walk, to get my mind free."

Looking John over with a suspicious glint, the D.I. finally gave in, knowing how stubborn the doctor could be.

"All right, I leave you for now, but if you think you are in any more danger, or if you just need someone to talk to, feel free to call me anytime, John."

Nodding, he looked at the Detective Inspector with grateful eyes.

"Thanks, Greg", he replied with a sigh. "I promise I will."

Jumping from the backside of the emergency vehicle, John waved a quick goodbye over his shoulder before getting out of the alley that was now resembling a bee hive instead of the lonely, forlorn street it had been an hour ago.

Still running high on adrenaline and the rush of excitement he always felt when he found himself once again alive after a dangerous encounter, John allowed his mind and senses to flow the whole way back to Baker Street.

And when he opened the door to let himself inside his home, he realised with shocked surprise that from the four people who had still been watching him yesterday, now with two of them out of the way, there had been none left to watch him on his way home. The last two of his stalkers seemed to have vanished into thin air. John could not help the shudder running through his body. Maybe he should have been relieved. But instead he simply felt as if the biggest event was still to come.

tbc...


	3. Chapter 3

If some of you have taken notice of the header so far, you might have wondered why all of the sudden there is a Chapter 3/4 instead of this being the final chapter. Well, turns out the last chapter was longer than I anticipated and while I do like long chapters, I decided over 20 pages for one chapter would certainly a bit too much. Therefore, one more chaper to look forward to. For now enjoy chapter 3!

Title: Of dogs and dead Consulting Detectives  
Part: 3/4  
Author: Usagi-Atemu-Tom  
Rating: PG  
Genre: General/Romance  
Warnings: Post Reichenbach  
Pairings: Sherlock/John  
Feedback: Please, yes, I love feedback! Constructive critic is especially welcome.

Summary: Where did the mysterious attackers come from? And why would people follow the ordinary life of one Dr. John Watson anyway? Things have to get worse before they become better. And the biggest shock is still to come.

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, everything belongs to the respective creators and of course the talented actors who gifted the characters with their great personality.

And not to forget, much thanks to Lee-Ann for suffering through my spelling mistakes and grammatical errors!

* * *

Two days after the attack on his life, John was back to his routine. On Monday of course he had to show up at the police station to reaffirm his statement with Lestrade. But on Tuesday he was back to work as if nothing ever happened. Admittedly, for a few seconds after he arrived home that exciting night, the doctor considered to contact Mycroft to re-establish being watched. However his pride would not allow that. He did not want to admit to the elder Holmes that Mycroft had been right.

Instead he kept quiet and started the week as if nothing happened the moment he was out of New Scotland Yard. On Tuesday he also met his animal life saviour again. John had been prepared for their next meeting at any time and he saved a big dog treat in his pocket that he gave the English Pointer immediately after they greeted each other.

"Thanks, buddy", he told the happily munching dog, burying his face in its fur in a moment of overwhelming emotions. "You certainly saved my life two days ago."

Of course the dog could not reply. But John had long stopped feeling silly talking to a dog. By now he could rather understand all too well every animal owner about what he once thought to be a silly habit.

Feeling slightly better, especially after he noticed that none of his mysterious stalkers had returned, John went out, for once enjoying just leisurely walking around. And thankfully enough it seemed his animal companion understood or was instructed well enough that he did not steal anything to induce their usual run.

* * *

John's life stayed peaceful through nearly the rest of the week, though since the incident he was careful to keep his senses and eyes on his surroundings. When Saturday came around he was grateful he kept his eyes open.

This weekend he had taken time off from his job, on insistence of his superior. Given that he preferred to work, it was obviously the better alternative than to sit at home and think. However, he now had too much overtime therefore his boss had taken him aside insisting he at least take off the weekend.

Having not much to do, John considered using his time to tidy up the flat and take care of purchases. When he returned from TESCO, he found the English Pointer sitting patiently in front of his flat with Mrs. Hudson cooing over the friendly dog. Smiling in amusement John could not help but tease his housekeeper just a little bit.

"And here you insisted I would become owner of the dog sooner rather than later. If you continue like this, I fear the dog would prefer to stay with you, Mrs. Hudson."

"Oh John, you are home, good", the elder woman exclaimed offering the last of the dog treats she had been hiding in her pockets for just that occasion. "I think the deary could use a walk around, don't you think so, too?"

Shaking his head in disbelief, John chuckled good-naturedly.

"Just give me a minute to take care of my purchases, then I'll be going Mrs. Hudson."

He took two steps at once in his eagerness, not even taking time to unpack his bags. That could wait till later. Grabbing some dog treats and the dog toys he bought as precaution so the English Pointer would not take his keys or mobile phone for their chases through the city, John was out once more barely half a minute later. Saying goodbye to his landlady, he signalled for his companion to take the toy and their chase started as soon as they reached the street's corner.

John got the feeling of being watched about half an hour into their chase. Fifteen minutes of discreetly observing his surroundings later while continuing their mad chase, he could make out at least one shadow trailing him. Though listening to his gut he was also sure that he was watched by more than one pair of eyes.

Cursing silently for not taking his gun with him, John could do nothing but go through with this chase as if nothing was wrong. And so far, whoever was watching him this time did not act. He was allowed to finish their chase as usual, ending not far away from Baker Street. Checking the time while he caught his breath and feed his animal friend some of the treats, he realised that strangely enough they did not take as much time as they usually did for their runs. At least that explained why he was not as greatly out of breath.

Too bad because here he had thought he finally built some stamina. Grumbling the former army doctor looked casually in the direction he had last seen his shadow trailing him. To his surprise and alarm he realised that his mysterious stalker had come closer since his stop, close enough that he could nearly see his face if it had not been hidden under a cap.

For now he was not worried though. It was still early evening and there were some people around. Okay, maybe the jogger with his tatty slacks and the typical hoodie over his head in front of him binding his shoe laces did not count as much, but still one unwanted witness too much for anything to occur. Or so he thought.

When it happened it was so quick, that he was unable to process what exactly occurred in front of his eyes. One moment his stalker was keeping his distance standing still. Then, for an instant John noticed from the corner of his eyes the movement of an arm. At the same time the jogger finished binding his laces, straightening up about to continue his tour. The doctor's mind was just processing that the movement he witnessed must have been some kind of signal, when the hackles of his dog companion stood up and a shot could be heard.

With a quiet groan the jogger, who had been about to pass him, stumbled against the former army doctor, dragging him to the ground as they both lost their balance. The English Pointer was standing in front of him, barking threateningly at the man finally moving out of the shadows, walking towards them.

During the fall, John ended up buried under the unfortunate jogger, who was lying with his head against the doctor's shoulder, clutching his arm where the quick pooling of blood on his sleeve indicated he had been hit by the very bullet John was certain was meant for him. His body was already snapping into battle mode and he snarled his teeth in frustration to his situation as he tried to roll the injured man aside so he could stand up and take a protective stance in front of the unfortunate victim.

However, frustratingly enough the jogger seemed to be so engrossed into his wounded arm or maybe it was simply the shock, that he was unable to move the body away. The other man was taller than himself, not a factor in favour of getting out from his current position. And the man's head was still pressed against his chest. The small struggle already caused the hood to come half off, revealing ginger coloured strands of hair that had been hidden under the cloth.

For a small second, John's mind strayed totally from his dangerous situation as the sight of hair reminded him strangely enough of the jogger he had often seen around Regent's Park, when he was down there with his dog friend. He was sure it was the same man, now that he thought about it. Ginger hair, the white hoodie and either a jogging trouser or tatty slacks. For a second he wondered why this man of all people happened to end up in front of him getting shot. Then the thought was gone and his mind returned to the important task of getting the man off his person.

"Oh for goodness sake, if you value your life, move!" John finally cursed, bracing his whole body against the one above. Unfortunately it was already too late. His stalker had arrived at the scene, face still partly hidden by his cap, but the gun in his hand was rather obvious. The attacker kept a smart distance to the still threatening dog, though unlike the last two attackers, this one was not afraid of the raging animal.

He raised his gun. John of course expected it to be pointed at him. Therefore it came as an utter surprise, when he realised that it was not aimed at him, but at the unfortunate jogger, lying above him. Their attacker was chuckling rather cruelly, too.

"Knew I would get the rat out in the open if I tempt with the right kind of cheese", the man exclaimed in a triumphant, dark voice. "I knew it! I knew you fooled us all. You're alive!"

There was an uncomfortable crazy light in the eyes of the assaulter, but also a cold, calculated gleam John did not like at all. Before he could become totally confused about what that maniac was talking about, their encounter was interrupted by another voice.

"John, what the hell is going on here?"

Greg Lestrade was standing not too far away, his gun out, pointed helplessly at the stranger, confusion written all over his face. John of course only now remembered that the D.I. must have waited in front of his flat for their usual Saturday evening meeting, meaning he certainly heard and recognised the gunshot for what it was.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade", the attacker drawled, voice unimpressed and his eyes never leaving John and the jogger on the ground. "If you would be so kind to put your gun down unless you wish for dear Dr. Watson here to be shot down from my hidden sniper friend, no matter how much this one tries to protect him with his own body."

"Sniper?" Greg asked incredulously, but John simply nodded, confirming the other's words. Grinding his teeth, the D. I. put the gun to the ground while the former army doctor returned his confused gaze towards their assaulter.

"What are you talking about?" he wanted to know because in all honesty, why should a stranger who was, as it now seemed, not so accidentally shot, protect him from harm?

"In a moment", the man replied gleefully, his gun suddenly no longer levelled at them but at the growling dog who had not moved an inch away from its protective stance in front of them. "I just need to get rid of the trash."

The jogger made a very strange sound within his throat just as the man was about to shoot. To John's greatest relief he did not hit his target. The gunshot echoed along the street but the English Pointer already moved, running down the street as fast as it could until it was out of sight.

He did not even wonder about the strange, non-protective behaviour so unlike their last time. Instead the doctor was simply relieved that his friend had not been hit. Clucking in disapproval, their attacker focused his gaze on them once more.

"Oh well, too bad I would have loved to kill that beast that wounded one of my best snipers", he commented, voice uncaring. "Though, of course between that piece of shit and my biggest prize, I guess I don't really care at all."

"What the fucking hell are you talking about?" Greg and John now questioned at the same time, both of them getting rather frustrated with the ranting of what seemed to be a lunatic. An armed, very dangerous lunatic.

The shooter did not seem to care, because his gaze was still fixed on the jogger, draped right over John's body. The man had gone still by now, his groaning stopped and it dawned on the doctor that he seemed to be totally focused on their assaulter, even if he did not turn around.

"Honestly, you were clever, really clever, I give you that", the gunman drawled, posture lazy and superior. "If I didn't know better I would certainly have fallen for the poor jogger accidentally crossing path with the dear doctor and getting hit instead. But I anticipated that move, mister. In fact I ordered my men to become careless two weeks ago so you would become aware I was watching Dr. Watson. I knew you were keeping an eye on him, therefore I was sure you would notice and take action. I am very pleased to see that I was right."

"And why the hell would you be watching me?" John interrupted feed up with being in the dark and listening to the confusing ranting. "Who the hell are you anyway?"

Their attacker spared him a haughty glance before returning his gaze right back to the wounded jogger.

"Oh please Dr. Watson, do you think for a second that this man there simply happened to come by just when I ordered my sniper to shoot you? One might believe that, I admit, if it weren't for the fact that any other accidentally hit and harmless person would have thrown themselves to the ground or behind a person for cover afraid for their miserable life. This one however did not only calculate falling right against you, he also dragged his body precise over yours, acting as a human shield to protect you from further harm."

Grinning, the gunman licked his lips, a rather predatory glint entering his eyes before he continued with a triumphant voice.

"I could not think of a lot of people taking a bullet for you, protecting you with their own life like that. In fact there is only one I trust to do that, just as my boss has warned me. Let it not be said, that Jim Moriarty did not take precaution for any case scenario, even after his own death, to ensure that his will would be seen through."

The man made a short pause, his malicious grin obvious proof that he knew very well what kind of impact the name Jim Moriarty had on John and Greg. While all the D. I. could do was take in a sharp intake of breath in shock, John was not so lucky. His eyes widened as memories unbidden were triggered by the hateful name, reminding him after just such a short time about the events that eventually lead to his best friend jumping from the roof of Barth's.

He would have certainly gone lost within his dark back flashes if it were not for the sudden pressure on his arm and waist. Blinking John found the jogger had let go of his bleeding arm and was instead embracing him rather forcefully, one hand buried and squeezed into his side, the other grabbing onto his arm until both body parts hurt from the pressure. The move was surprising but it grounded the doctor rather nicely, returning him to the present.

As soon as his mind was back, the jogger seemed to know and released him immediately. He also finally lifted his head from where it had been buried against John's chest, head to the side focused on their attacker so all the doctor could see was part of the askew hood and parts of curly, ginger coloured hair.

The gun man was obviously satisfied with the shock he caused and finally continued.

"As for my name, Mr. Watson, you would not know me", he drawled haughtily. "I am Colonel Sebastian Moran. I am or better, have been, the right hand of someone you certainly knew though. Remember my boss, Jim Moriarty?"

Moran, as he introduced himself, laughed viciously when all John could do was grind his teeth in blind, frustrated anger.

"It's a pleasure to finally meet eye to eye, Dr. Watson. Though you don't know of me, I certainly know of you. I already saw you twice at gunpoint. Once in an old swimming pool - I am sure you remember just as dearly as I do - and the second time was of course when you were unsuspectingly standing in front of St. Barth's hospital, trying ineffectively to prevent your friend from jumping to his death. I was the one ordered to shoot you if Sherlock Holmes did not commit suicide on that very day."

John's mind was reeling strongly after every terrible explanation he just heard out of that awful man's mouth. He was barely able to comprehend, to understand what he heard. For some agonising long seconds that felt endless, his mind screamed 'ordered to shoot if Sherlock Holmes did not commit suicide' again and again, until he was filled with white noise. He was rather glad he was already lying on the ground because the former army doctor was sure he would have been unable to stand after this shocking revelation.

However, Moran it seemed was not done shocking him at all because his eyes nearly drilled on the figure of the jogger still draped around the doctor's body as he added rather nastily.

"But of course I am certain you already deduced that I have been the one ordered to assassination Dr. John Watson, have you not, Mr. Holmes?"

From the corner of his eyes John noticed Lestrade gaping at their attacker, while someone made a rather strange sounding choking noise. It took him some time to realised it was himself. Moran was looking expectantly at the jogger draped over the doctor's body, his eyes cruel and calculating.

Finally the injured man lifted himself slowly from John's body. He stood up, but never abandoning his protective stance in front of the doctor while his face gazed at the space between John and Moran.

"One and a half month", was the calm response that rather suddenly came out of his mouth. He didn't sound like someone suffering from a fresh shot wound. In fact, he sounded rather bored. And that voice, that achingly familiar voice sent shivers down John's body as he lay on the ground trying not to hyperventilate. Oh yes, that voice, that dark, rich, overconfident voice, he knew it very well. It followed him into his dreams for months, never really left him alone even after more than one year had gone by since he had last spoken to that man.

On Moran's face waved a flicker of uncertainty at hearing the man speaking so relaxed, but he quickly covered his confusion behind a mask of wild triumph.

"What exactly is one and a half month?" he casually demanded to know from the jogger. From his point of view, John was barely able to make out the face, but he could see a hint of muscle movements and he knew, he just KNEW the man was giving a quick, supposedly humourless smile.

"You, watching John", he answered haughtily before he turned in one swift movement, facing Moran fully. "You might have given instructions for your people to show themselves two weeks ago, but I've known they were there even before that time. In fact, the sudden sloppy way of concealment made it obvious that this was supposed to be a trap. Honestly even an idiot would have realised that."

A flicker of irritation darted over Moran's face before he snorted and pointed his gun more threateningly at the injured man.

"And yet you still ran into the trap with open arms. So tell me, who is the true idiot, Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

"Just because I deduced what you were up to didn't mean I had the means necessary to put all your men out in one go", came the answer accompanied with a careless shrug. "I had to be careful taking them out, to watch you from the shadows to make sure you would not become alert and attack John when I could not protect him.

"To be frank, your henchmen were laughingly easy. It were those two fellow snipers of yours that gave me a bit more of a challenge. In fact, your last one I was only able to take out with your kind help just now, Mr. Moran."

The gunman looked shocked at his words, before he started to scowl, baring his teeth.

"And what do you think you could do now, with my gun pointed at you and my fellow sniper pointing his gun at your dear Doctor Watson?" Moran spat, eyes murderous. "In fact I could simply order them to shoot Doctor Watson right now, how would you like that? It would be just punishment for surviving when you were supposed to die, Holmes. Three lives for yours, that was the deal you had with Moriarty. I think it's fair to say that you did not keep your end of the bargain."

Silence hung around them for a moment, as John tried to absorb the words and the meaning it contained. Accordingly at first it had been his life at stake. That much he understood from the past words Moran had spoken at the beginning. But it seemed now that there had been even more at stake that fateful day, than he was just now beginning to suspect.

He watched in astonishment as the man in front of him, that stranger who was no stranger at all, moved his head barely towards him, then let his eyes flicker to Greg. It was obvious from the widening of the D. I.'s eyes that not only had he noticed the movement as well but also understood their meaning. So Greg had been the second person whose life had been in danger. And they had never suspected.

Before he had a chance to further process the knowledge, Sherlock - as he had by now no doubt the man indeed was - turned his attention back to Moran. Moreover while John finally decided to get up from the ground he saw Sherlock smile at the henchman of Jim Moriarty.

"Please, by all means give your fellow the signal to shoot", the Consulting Detective drawled. "Let's see what happens, shall we?"

Those overconfident words certainly upset the gunman, making him waver for precious seconds before he found his footing again.

"Of course", he snarled, "it will be my pleasure. Let's see if you are quick enough to jump in front of your little friend for a second time."

Moran moved the arm not holding a gun. John and Greg held their breaths, waiting for the sound of a shot to be heard, waiting for the impact into flesh to happen while Sherlock stood stock still, head held proud and confident.

Nothing happened. There was no shot, no cry of injury, no pain John had expected to feel. Finally the corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched into his all too familiar one second smirk before he moved his arm where John now realised he had been holding a mobile phone all the time.

"All I needed was a shot and its impact to calculate the angle and deduce the position of your sniper friend. While my back was turned, I texted the coordinates to my companions, trusting them to take care of the problem. It seems they were successful, don't you agree?"

Confidently he put his phone away while Moran seethed with fury. Afterwards Sherlock strangely enough clapped into his hands two times before smiling at Moran challengingly.

"So, want to give up now, before you get hurt, Mr. Moran?"

Snarling the gunman pointed his weapon towards the confident Consulting Detective.

"You seem to forget that I still have a gun that I can use, Mr. Holmes", he shouted.

"Don't be absurd", Sherlock responded dismissively. "There are three of us and only one of you. What could you do? You would be down before you would be able to produce a second shot."

"Oh but at least one shot means one kill, don't you agree?" was the vicious reply. "It would be enough to fulfil my promise to Moriarty. I could kill you. Or better, I could kill your dear Dr. Watson. How would you like that, Mr. Holmes?"

From his point of view John was not able to see much of the other man's reaction. However, he did notice the slight stiffening of shoulders. What he also saw was the strange hand movement, just flickering of wrist while the arm was held down. It looked funnily enough like a 'stop' sign, though Moran did not seem to realise what Sherlock was doing.

It took John another moment, but then he finally understood what the hand movement was all about. There, nearly hidden behind a fence, was the English Pointer the doctor knew all too well. It must have crept up to the gunman, but at Sherlock's discrete signal the dog had stopped, now waiting for further command.

It occurred to the former army doctor that very second just who the owner of the dog must be and he could barely believe it. Not that he had a lot of time to process his realisation. While Greg had been watchful, tensely waiting for the right moment, the very second he could take action, Sherlock had made sure Moran's eyes were on him just where he needed the gunman's concentration to be.

Stepping forward now, Moran could not help himself taking a step back, trying to keep the distance between them. Snarling when he realised what he had done, Moriarty's former henchman turned his attention to John, pointing the gun right between the doctor's eyes.

"Another move and your friend will be done, Holmes!" the angry man snarled, eyes indicating that he was willing to go through with this threat. Sherlock obeyed, but not moving his body did not mean he could not speak. Giving a side glance towards John before turning his attention back to Moran, the doctor noticed the rather familiar one second smirk on the other man's face, as if their attacker had done something really amusing.

"I've warned you, Mr. Moran, but I guess it was obvious this could not be helped", the Consulting Detective exclaimed voice uncaring. Eyes never leaving Moran's face, Sherlock spoke his next words clear and commanding. "Watson, ready for attack!"

For a moment a flicker of disbelief settled over the gunman's face, while Greg and John were simply confused. Somehow, the former army doctor had the feeling the command was not meant for him, which would have been strange anyway because of the way Sherlock used his name.

Moran started to laugh, his gaze flickering between John and Sherlock as if they were both stupid.

"Attack?" the gunman questioned amused. "How stupid have you become, Mr. Holmes? I am starting to suspect that the shot wound is finally messing with that brilliant mind of yours if you think for a second that I leave your pathetic friend enough time to even move a muscle never mind hitting me."

"And this is where it becomes obvious that Moriarty certainly kept you simply for brute strength and the dirty work", snorted Sherlock in a rather superior voice. "Because, if you were intelligent enough you would have done your homework about the relationship between John and me. We have always called each other by first name since the day we met, did you not know?"

"So what?" Moran replied in provocation.

"Meaning my command was not meant for Dr. Watson at all", was the rather calm reply followed by a nod of his head. "Watson, attack!"

It was as if someone put on a light bulb inside his head when John finally noticed the movement just behind Moran. And then he understood. Of course, THIS was what Sherlock had been talking about.

Nearly behind Moran now was the enraged form of the English Pointer who at the Consulting Detective's command let out a vicious snarl before it moved in a graceful jump. Moran did not even have enough time to turn fully around before the dog buried sharp teeth into the arm that held the gun.

tbc...


	4. Chapter 4

Okay, before we start with the final chapter, there is something I feel the need to say about something behind the scenes of the upcoming season three. No spoilers as far as I can tell, besides the name of one character that will be showing up in the coming season.

I am the first to admit, that I've taken a bit longer becoming a Sherlock and therefore Johnlock fan. I've only started watching that series in early spring 2013. And usually, I am keeping myself away from anything that goes on behind the scenes of a series. Be it reports about actors or – as in case with ongoing series – rumours about story content, the danger of being spoiled through hints and speculations thrown around. Therefore I do have to say: I know as good as nothing about what hints have been given about season three. Well, nothing but the rumour of one female by the name of Mary Morstan.

Obviously every Sherlock fan knows what this one female could mean to the continuation of our beloved Johnlock hints. Therefore I'd like to say the following:

**I fully support Amanda Abbington in acting as the fictional character of one Mary Morstan in season three of the BBC Sherlock Holmes series!**

That said, whoever is mostly not interested in this topic, feel free to skip the following notes and just jump right towards the story. Everyone else feel free to read as to why I felt the need to write down my support especially at the start of the final chapter of a Johnlock fanfic.

This week by accident I stumbled upon an article in the Internet that told of Johnlock fans threatening the actor Amanda Abbington who is said to be playing Mary Morstan in the upcoming third season. And I was shocked to read to what extend some fans seem to go just because they see their favourite couple threatened. I guess this ran deeper with me because as you can see within my profile, I've been delving most of my years with comic series. It is sad enough already that I am not exactly surprised with the dislike in general, as I've encountered this kind of dislike about female characters from fans of a male/male couple in almost every series I've been a fan of. Sometimes I even felt like the more likely a hetero couple seemed to be in canon, the more intensive the bashing of the female character turned out from fans of the male couple (no matter how unlikely the male/male would be in case of the canon series). I've had a great dislike of those kind of treatments from the very beginning. As one might have noticed from my other stories, the females concerned always end up as good friends to the main couple and I am always trying to keep everyone as much in character as I am able to. That has always been a part of a small, personal rebellion against those who tended to bash those characters. Yet, no matter how annoying in my personal opinion this treatment of the females have been by some fans, so far the poor characters in those series have always been nothing but drawn fictional figures, nothing real.

However this time I find myself as a fan of a series where the fictional characters are presented by very real living and breathing people. And I can't help but shake my head in clear disbelief about how people can act in such a way. Of course I am sure that those kind of people who think threatening great actors who take on the difficult task of acting a rather well known character from one of the most famous novel known, are really, really small. However as it is with all aspects of life, even though they are minority, those acting in a negative way are the ones that stand out, while the majority, who plays by the rules disappears into the crowd.

**But for heaven's sake, people, get real!** Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Mary and everyone else are FICTIONAL characters! Not to mention that in the original books John and Mary have been MARRIED if I may remind you. Of course, for us Johnlock fans it would be the greatest treat on Earth if the series would continue with the teasing and hinting or even do something more. However, this is Moffat's and Gatiss' playground! They came up already with two stunning, breathtaking seasons and they are allowed to play out their ideas and keep following the influence of the original books just as they have before. It is their series and if there is anything not turning out to our liking... well this is what fanfictions are for, right?

But step up and act worse than a toddler that got its sweets stolen; being unable to differ between fanfiction and reality, that is really the show of bad character in my eyes, not to mention it reflects discredit on all the other fans out there, who love Johnlock but can still accept the fact that they are fiction and that in reality Mr. Cumberbatch is NOT Sherlock, Mr. Freeman NOT John and Mrs. Abbington NOT Mary. There are Johnlock fans out there who enjoy the BBC series, no matter what will happen, as long as Moffat and Gatiss continue to come up with plots as brilliant as they have so far.

Besides, I have to say that at least for me, in my personal opinion Sherlock is not about romance. It's about crime, action, mystery and the great friendship between two great men who have each other's back at everything they go through.

I can admit freely that in fanfiction, I am usually VERY set in one couple and one couple only. If I like to read about John and Sherlock as a couple together I would never read about, let's say Greg Lestrade and John, or Sherlock and Molly. That is not my cup of tea. And no one forces me to read those fanfics just as I would never force anyone who likes those other couples to read a Johnlock fanfic. Everyone is free to read and write about the couples and topics they like best.

But I still can enjoy very much watching the canon series, no matter if and how couples might turn out in that one. I don't need to throw a temper tantrum just because there might come up a Mary and snatch away her John from Sherlock's grasp. After all, I have always been aware that fanfictions will not be accurate to the canon series. And once I am done watching the series in TV, marvelling over the plots and the usual impressive performances of the actors and then decide that Johnlock is still the best, I can go and search for a fanfic that interests me or simply write something myself. There, easy. No need to threaten great actors and prove you have no longer a grasp of reality.

I am very sorry that I've started this final chapter with such a huge rant, but after reading about the threats to Mrs. Abbington I could not help but think about it constantly and I just had to get this off my chest. I think it is important that we Johnlock fans show support to the show and the actors, proving that we are not that stupid.

That said I am now presenting to you the final chapter of my story. I thank you all for sticking with me and following this story. I hope you'll enjoy the final conclusion.

Sincerely

Atemue aka Usagi-Atemu-Tom

* * *

Title: Of dogs and dead Consulting Detectives  
Part: 4/4  
Author: Usagi-Atemu-Tom  
Rating: PG  
Genre: General/Romance  
Warnings: Post Reichenbach  
Pairings: Sherlock/John  
Feedback: Please, yes, I love feedback! Constructive critic is especially welcome.

Summary: Sherlock Holmes is alive! And of course, even with the shock not yet processed he and John are already knee deep in trouble. Will they be able to get out of the fight against Sebastian Moran alive?

Disclaimer: Nothing is mine, everything belongs to the respective creators and of course the talented actors who gifted the characters with their great personality.

And not to forget, much thanks to Lee-Ann for suffering through my spelling mistakes and grammatical errors!

**A little warning in advance. I have not a lot of knowledge of medicine, therefore not everything described might be as accurate as it should be. Please overlook the fact that I tweaked circumstances into my favour even if that might have lead to a not too realistic prescription of medical circumstances.**

* * *

_"Meaning my command was not meant for Dr. Watson at all", was the rather calm reply followed by a nod of his head. "Watson, attack!"_

_It was as if someone put on a light bulb inside his head when John finally noticed the movement just behind Moran. And then he understood. Of course, THIS was what Sherlock had been talking about._

_Nearly behind Moran now was the enraged form of the English Pointer who at the Consulting Detectives command let out a vicious snarl before it moved in a graceful jump. Moran did not even have enough time to turn fully around before the dog buried sharp teeth into the arm that held the gun._

* * *

The man let go of the weapon with a cry of pain. What happened next John could only recount in a blur. Sherlock was already moving by the time the dog had bitten down on their enemy and soon there were two men grappling, fighting, throwing punches with a dog in between snapping at bared flesh with angry teeth.

The fight was not graceful at all, not the standard John was used to see in the performance of his best friend. Yet it was not surprising; after all both fighters were injured now. But just because both men were handicapped, did not mean he did not want to ensure who the winner of the outcome would be. However, the former army doctor was too afraid that he might get in the way with all the flailing limbs and the dog running in between.

Greg seemed to be of the same opinion, because while he had come nearer, his gun back in his hands, he did not dare to fire a single shot for fear he might hit the wrong target. The fight could not have taken more than a few minutes at best, but the tide was turning when Moran succeeded in hitting Sherlock right on his fresh bullet wound. Losing footing for a precious moment, the Consulting Detective was unable to avoid the next hook to his face. There was an ugly sound of fist hitting flesh before the thin body went to the ground with a groan.

Neither John nor Greg wasted any seconds. Before Moran could even think of kicking the dog to the ground as well and recover his gun, the two men were upon him and even if the gunman was bulkier and certainly better built for strength, they had wrestled him down in seconds, a rather forceful hit from John rendering the man unconscious. Let it not be said that the doctor did not still possess his fighting strength and skills from his army days.

Straightening up, he allowed Greg to take care of the gunman on the ground. His eyes were locked on the arrest scene, yet his mind did not process anything. In fact, he felt numb and tired, the aftermath of the attack finally settling in as the adrenaline of the fight faded.

A rather loud and pitiful whine brought John out of his shocked trance and he was able to acknowledge his surroundings once more. The dog was standing besides the slumped figure of its owner, looking utterly lost and licking his hand again and again in a gesture of comfort.

'Sherlock', his mind whispered in absolute disbelief. Not a stranger, not an innocent victim just running by and getting hit by a bullet meant for him. Sherlock. Not simply a stranger who owned a dog he happened to know.

By now the other man managed to sit up slightly against the fence he had fallen against, though he was still slightly slumped and clutching his arm which was oozing an alarming amount of blood. John's eyes, even while his mind still felt numb, took in the sight in front of him for the first time.

The body was different. The clothes looked slightly ragged and not just because they were full of blood. Certainly it was far from what he was used to seeing his Consulting Detective to wear outside the flat. Not to mention how thin he was. The clothes could barely conceal the amount of weight the man must have lost within the last year.

It was even more obvious in the face which he could now perfectly see after the hood had fully fallen off during the fight. Thin as a skeleton, there was hardly enough indication that this person was still alive and breathing. The hair was different as well. A bit short, though still with a hint of curls. However, instead of the dark brown it looked a deep ginger red in the sunlight.

Yet, just one look into those eyes assured the doctor that this man in front of him could not be anyone but Sherlock Holmes. It were the same eyes, even glazed over in pain, looking slightly dazed, there was still the hint of the alertness, the piercing quality they usually possessed.

And then there was his voice. Though it was currently only a hoarse sounding whisper as the man just now tried to persuade the dog to get away from him.

"Good dog, go to John, be a good dog, protect John", the former army doctor heard him murmur. This was the same voice, the voice that had spoken daring and confident to Moran just before. A voice John would never forget - ever.

It was hearing his voice, which brought him out of his stupor and into action. Releasing a colourful stream of curses, John jumped forward to the injured figure on the ground, his senses as a doctor kicking in.

The dog, as if sensing his intentions, stepped aside without being commanded to. Sherlock barely noticed. His eyes were still glazed over, leaving the doctor to suspect at least a small concussion. Or maybe it was the blood loss catching up with the Consulting Detective. Because while he certainly noticed John kneeling next to his injured arm, it was obvious he didn't recognise him.

"Where's John? Is John safe?" Sherlock's words sounded worryingly slurred. When he looked back at it later, the former army doctor wondered if that might have been the only reason why punching him did not cross his mind.

"Idiot", he chided surprisingly gentle. "I'm right here, right by your side, Sherlock."

His words seemed to have an effect on the injured man, because his eyes lost a lot of the haze, becoming clearer. He took in John kneeling next to him for the first time and the hint of a very small, utterly tired smile played around the corner of his lips.

"John", he muttered, "are you all right?"

The former army doctor let out a snort, staring down at the slumped figure in disbelief.

"You are kidding, right?" he asked, voice rising with each new word. "You are a supposed to be dead man who just got shot and who I suspect also received a concussion and you are asking ME if I am all right? Sherlock Holmes, you never have been more ridiculous in the two years I've known you!"

His last sentence was shouted and the volume of his voice caught even Greg's attention, who till now had been watching their interaction silently. The Detective Inspector had been too shocked to interrupt, but at least conscious enough to still kneel over the lifeless Moran, keeping him in a police wristlock. The former army doctor finally showing his first signs of temper however brought him out of his stupor.

"John!" he cautioned, voice hoarse. "Keep calm, we're already getting enough attention as it is."

His reminder brought the doctor certainly back to reality. Blinking twice John looked around, noticing the first curious onlookers while far away the sounds of a police siren could be heard. Glancing at Sherlock, who was looking back at him with tired, yet alert eyes, John's expression hardened and he looked over at Greg.

"Call Mycroft!" his voice was like steel. Beside him Sherlock let out a groan, while Lestrade stared at the doctor as if he lost his mind.

"Are you certain?"

John knew Greg was not aware of the details, but even he had noticed the rather hard fallout the former army doctor had with the older Holmes brother after Sherlock's death. Well, faked death as it now stood. And damn it if John could not feel the sheer amount of happiness bubbling up inside him under all the anger, fear and bout of adrenaline that was still cursing through his veins.

"Oh for god's sake, just do it, Greg!" John could not help but bellow before looking at Sherlock, his eyes hard as steel. "And I don't care how much you do NOT like you brother meddling with your affairs", he continued, voice more controlled but still obviously not leaving anyone room for questioning his decision. "I'll be the first to admit that I don't like it either, but he is the only one right now who can take care of that ass over there and keep it hush, hush.

"I absolutely don't fancy the police investigating and finding out who you are. Greg and I have been fighting a lot for your credibility this past year, Sherlock, believe me, and I suspect Mycroft has been doing so as well, loath as I am to admit it. But you're are not cleared yet, and I sure as hell will not allow for you to just come back to me alive only to be taken away again by some incompetent idiots too jealous to understand your genius and therefore have to explain it with something akin to witchcraft."

His cursing of the police obviously amused Sherlock, because his lips quirked into a weak smirk. It didn't help that he looked utterly exhausted, reminding John of the injury. Quickly he took a look at the damage before doing fast work on stopping the bleeding as well as he could. Lestrade used the silence to make the required phone call and to snap at the bystanders to get lost if they did not fancy to be arrested. By now the police sirens sounded rather close.

Greg must have thought the same as John because the Detective Inspector was looking at him rather seriously.

"John, if you don't want to chance Sherlock being recognised and arrested, I suggest you should leave now", he recommended. The sharp intake of breath by his side was the only indication that Sherlock was just as surprised as him.

"Oh please, don't look at me as if you've seen a ghost", Lestrade continued a bit gruffly. "I for one know that Sherlock is not a farce, therefore I don't fancy seeing him arrested just as much as you do, John. Hence, if he is moveable enough get him the hell out of here! Think you can do that?"

Stunned, John did a quick once over to consider Sherlock's condition before nodding dumbly. It would not be easy, he would obviously have to bear most of the Consulting Detective's weight to get him moving, but given how thin the other man had become, the doctor doubted it would be a problem. Greg was certainly pleased with the answer.

"Baker Street is just around the corner", the D. I. instructed, jerking his head in the general direction. "I'll keep this asshole here company and wait for Mycroft. I'm sure he'll take care of the rest. I'll join you later when everything is taken care of. Come on, the police is only two streets away, get your asses moving! Lucky for us it sounds like they're kept on the main road, so it might be just enough time for you two to vanish."

John reacted on autopilot. Getting up, he went to Sherlock's uninjured side before crouching down to sling the man's arm around his neck and wrap his own arm around the alarmingly thin waist. Even through the clothes John was able to feel every single rib and he did not like it at all.

Hefting Sherlock up, John stood still for a moment, adjusting his grip just right before starting to walk forward as fast as possible with Sherlock stumbling by his side. Even dizzy and deadly tired, the injured man seemed aware enough of his surroundings to not forget his dog, which had been watching the whole process in well behaved silence.

"Come along, Watson", Sherlock ordered quietly, his eyes just a bit softer than usual. The dog immediately stood up and followed right behind, eyes alert and watchful. Even with everything that had happened right now, John could not help but admire how well trained the animal was and it seemed Greg felt the same, because he let out a small, appreciative whistle.

"Damn, but this dog is a good lad!" the D. I. exclaimed in admiration. His words made Sherlock stop rather abruptly, forcing John to a sudden halt with him. The Consulting Detective moved his head towards Lestrade and for a moment all tiredness had vanished to be replaced by a look of disbelief.

"Lad?" Sherlock asked, his voice nearly outraged and with a rather familiar hint of his former arrogance. "That dog is female, don't you people ever pay attention to anything? It's obvious!"

Even with Sherlock just returned from the dead after not entirely two years, it was rather easy to simply fall back to ignore being called an idiot by that man and simply react to the important facts of his exclamation.

"Female?" Greg gaped at the dog before staring at Sherlock in disbelief. "You named a FEMALE dog 'Watson'?"

The Consulting Detective raised an eyebrow, before tiredness caught up with him and John found the injured man slumping against his side.

"I don't know what the problem is", Sherlock grumbled with a weary snort. "Watson is not a male name, simply a family name, therefore it should not matter if the dog is male or female. Honestly."

"Oh and you're telling me that you did not think of John over there when you named that dog, Sherlock?" Lestrade retorted dryly, voice slightly mocking. The Consulting Detective opened his mouth to reply, but John had enough.

"Oh for heaven's sake, we are not starting a discussion about what kind of names would be fitting for a female dog while the police close in on us", he shouted at both of them. "Continue this when Sherlock is well enough again, if you must. Make sure I am far away from you then though, because I don't want to hear it. For now we are getting the hell out of here. Come on, Sherlock!"

Not waiting for either of them to reply John began to move, forcing his injured friend to move with him. To be honest, the doctor felt slightly mortified to witness a discussion about a dog that had obviously been named after him, male or female be damned.

With a last nod at Greg, John increased his pace as fast as possible. In the end, they barely made it. Reaching the corner of Baker Street John could already see with a quick glance over his shoulder the first police car finally arriving on the other end of the street. Murmuring to Sherlock to come along, the two men and one dog vanished into the safety around the corner.

What also worried him was that Sherlock seemed to lose strength with each step they took. By the time they reached the door of 221B he was already mostly hanging into John's steadying hands, Watson circling them with rather quiet yips. The doctor was still wondering how he should get out the keys to their flat, when all of the sudden the door opened and Mrs. Hudson stood before them.

The injured Consulting Detective had barely time to avert his head while the old woman got over the shock the sight of John with a sweaty and bloodied man in his arms and the dog by his side made.

"John what", she started but he interrupted her quickly.

"No time Mrs. Hudson, we need to get inside. Could you be so kind and open the door for us? As you can see I have my hands full of a patient right now and I am not sure the dog is able to open the door with a key, no matter how intelligent she is."

"Of course dear", she stuttered, taking out her keys without thinking and getting up the stairs to open the requested door. "Do you need anything else? Should I call an ambulance?"

"NO!" John's almost hysterical shout did not only surprise the landlady but caused Watson and Sherlock in his arms to jump as well. Coughing the former army doctor continued in a quieter tone.

"I mean, please could you just for now go to business as usual and not let anyone know what happened? I promise I'll explain everything later when I've taken care of him, but for now we need discretion. Greg knows about this and he will join us later, so I assure you, everything is under control."

"Sure, if you say so", Mrs. Hudson replied, though voice unsure. She descended down the stairs again, while John arranged the now half catatonic Sherlock in a tighter grip to get them both up the stairs. The climb went slowly and John had to stop to allow both of them to catch their breath when they were up half the way. Watson thankfully was intelligent enough that she ran forward and waited impatiently on the top step for them to catch up.

John glanced down at their landlady who was watching them silently from the bottom with a contemplative look on her face.

"Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes, dear?"

"Were you about to go shopping?" he wondered. She nodded in reply.

"Could you do me a favour and bring something to eat? Some soup would be good, something I can heat up quickly and can be digested easily by a sick person."

"Of course, John, I can bring you that", she replied quickly enough before finally getting a grip on herself and a small, half hearted smile flickered over her worried face. "But just this once. Remember I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper."

Laughing slightly, John could hear the quiet snort of amusement from where Sherlock had buried his face in his neck, before he nodded down at the old lady.

"Duly noted, Mrs. Hudson, duly noted."

"I'll be going then, John. And how about some snacks for our lovely dog friend as well, the poor thing looks rather hungry, I'd say? I'll make sure I'll be done as quickly as possible, don't worry."

"No, no, take your time", John objected. "I cannot allow you inside immediately anyway; I need to take care of him first, which I am sure will take a while. I'll be coming downstairs as soon as I'm done, promise. And some dog treats would be lovely, thank you. I think I have used up the last just today on our walk."

She hesitated for a second, then nodded her head.

"If you are sure John."

"Yes, thank you Mrs. Hudson."

She smiled tightly and turned around leaving the house with a wave. John watched the door close before letting out a sigh, hefting Sherlock carefully against him.

"She didn't recognise me", Sherlock murmured from where he hung like a bag of sand in John's arms. The former army doctor scoffed.

"Of course not. You have your face buried into my neck, you hair is shorter and the wrong colour, not to mention you look like death warmed over with the loss of weight and the bullet wound. You should be thankful she did not realise who you are. She might have fainted or tried to finish what that ass Moran started, who knows."

Sherlock let out another dry snort of weak amusement, though this one fainter than his first. They were lucky to reach the top of the stairs, where Watson was still waiting, as they did because Sherlock finally used up the last resources of his strength. He had already been hanging with most of his weight on John, but now his feet could no longer move at all.

Groaning, John half dragged, half carried the barely conscious Consulting Detective inside their flat, ordering Watson out of the way as he made his path towards what he had always seen as Sherlock's bedroom, even if he thought the man was dead.

Sherlock was not exactly heavy, not with all the weight loss he suffered through over the year, but he was still taller than John and consequently not easy to get a grip on. The doctor was rather glad now that Mrs. Hudson had always cleaned the deserted bedroom since that way he could simply dump his injured friend onto the bed, and prevent the dog from taking her place beside the bleeding man.

His physician's instincts taking over, John knew he needed the area to be as clean as possible for his next actions, though he simply did not have the heart to order Watson out of the room. He allowed her to take a seat in one of the corners, a bit away from Sherlock on the bed but still in sight.

Admittedly the dog did not make it easy for him. Twice she jumped up again, nearing the bed, when John turned around. It was the first time the dog refused to obey a serious order from him. In the end it was Sherlock giving a whispered command with his tired voice that did the trick. Even though it was spoken softly, Watson followed his command to stay in her corner without a twitch of muscle.

Giving Sherlock a thankful glance, John finally fell into action. He left the bedroom, rushing back and forth between the kitchen and bathroom to raid the medicine cabinet, heat up water and prepare whatever was necessary for his preliminary examination of the injured Consulting Detective.

Sherlock was still awake, though just barely hanging on consciousness while the former army doctor came and went into the bedroom with arms full of bandage aids, creams and painkillers. His injured friend was already too weak to get out of his clothes, therefore John was forced to use the scissors to get them off. The first sight of the skin and damage was the worst. Blood had spread all over his arm and the wound was still bleeding, though thankfully not as much as the doctor feared.

From his running around while pretending to be a jogger, the fighting and then the effort of making it to the flat the injured man was all sweaty, not to mention rather dirty from his fight against Moran. He also was, as John had felt, worryingly thin; ribs showing painfully obviously through his skin. And he was pale, deathly so, which John feared was mostly from blood loss.

Surprisingly enough Sherlock's mind did not seem to have suffered despite his body's state. Even half unconscious the man saw it all, observed the worry John expressed in the crease of his brows, the wrinkles on his forehead or something else rather ridiculous as he stared at his patient. When the Consulting Detective stared back, those alert, usually emotionless looking eyes softened into a look John had never seen on his face before.

Trying to distract himself he began the long process of washing Sherlock's body before he could clean and disinfect all the wounds, especially the one on his arm where he was shot. Silence fell over the room with John working nearly mechanically, his worry never ceasing and his gaze now and then once more lost by looking into the Consulting Detective's pain filled, yet alert eyes. Sherlock did not utter a single sound of discomfort even though the disinfection must sting like hell, especially when John reached the shot wound.

The worry in the doctor's eyes deepened when he considered the fact, that the bullet was still inside and he really, really wanted to get it out, but was missing the right equipment. And he did not like how Sherlock's skin seemed to feel hotter, the longer he worked on him. A fever was obviously building, most likely caused by dirt getting inside the open bullet wound during Sherlock's fight with Moran.

"It's bad, isn't it?"

The sudden, softly spoken words nearly startled the former army doctor, so lost had he been in his worry for his friend.

"I never thought I would experience the day where I am overcome by feelings of sentiment", Sherlock continued softly, with just a hint of displeasure in his tone at the word of sentiment. "Yet, here I am finding myself calm and content with the idea that if I am to die now, I would not mind as long as I am assured of your safety."

The silence that followed was nearly deafening as John stopped cleaning the nasty looking shot wound as good as he could in preparation for the extraction of the bullet - which he was still missing the equipment for. He was staring at the Consulting Detective with wide, fearful eyes. Sherlock was weak. Body too thin, eyes too tired and obvious signs of too much blood loss were just the beginnings to outline his current state.

And then, all of the sudden, anger took over.

"If you dare to die, Sherlock Holmes", he growled out through gritted teeth, "I swear to God I am going to revive you, if it is the last thing I do. And then I will kill you myself. Long and slow."

He choked on his next words, his throat suddenly so tight, it hurt as the adrenaline of handling a seriously injured patient and the shock seemed to finally leave his body and the realisation that Sherlock Holmes was alive - seriously wounded and weak, yes, but alive - hit him like tons of bricks.

"Oh God, I've got you back, I just got you back", John exclaimed with constricted voice that shook slightly in what he refused to accept as panic. Buried under all his anger he was terrified that he might be forced to watch his best friend die once more, this time for good with no miracle happening as it had just now.

"Please Sherlock, fight, stay with me. Don't you dare leave me alone again! I need you! Without you in my life, everything is just meaningless - dull."

And before he knew what he was doing, John grabbed Sherlock by the shoulder of his uninjured arm, bent down and kissed him - on the mouth. It was a quick kiss, a hard press of lips on lips. Not loving or arousing, just desperate and instinctive. Yet, this one touch of lips said more about the former army doctor's feelings than any words ever could. And it was only after it was over, that realisation of what he had just done struck both John and Sherlock.

Gasping out a strangled sound, John hit his hands in front of his mouth staring wide eyed at the Consulting Detective who looked back at him like a deer caught in the headlight. John twitched, his body tensing up as his mind quickly supplied him with the idea of fleeing the room. However, something must have given him away, because all of the sudden Sherlock's eyes narrowed and his face morphed back into his usual, nonchalant poker face.

He grabbed the doctor's arm before he could even take one step away from the bed, clasping the shaking hand in a weak grip.

"Don't run away", Sherlock whispered. "I admit your actions certainly caught me by surprise."

John muttered something like "Not only you." which caused the ghost of a smile to flicker over the Consulting Detective's face.

"I think we both might have miscalculated what we came to mean to each other during those two years of staying together", Sherlock continued, voice getting hoarser with each word he spoke. "We should... simply put what happened... into the back of our minds... for later analysing. Let's see it as my motivation to... get better so I can... explore what this all means."

John managed a rather weak smile, which immediately vanished when Sherlock started to cough rather violently. He grabbed the water he already prepared by the bedside table and helped the injured man to take in some liquid for his dry throat.

"I need to call Mycroft", he said softly, when the other's coughing fit had calmed down. "I know how much you hate for your brother to intrude, but this damn bullet needs to get out of your arm and I need the right tools for that without causing suspicion. Not to mention stronger antibiotics and painkillers. I also don't like the fever you are developing."

The fact that Sherlock's answer was a deep, tired sigh and a careless wave of his hand did not lessen his worries at all, quite the opposite. Nodding his head in determination, falling back into his army training to keep a calm façade in the face of the injured, he went out of the bedroom to get his phone and make the call. He was running out of time.

* * *

Nearly twenty four hours later found John Watson alone, exhausted and asleep with his head pillowed on the blanket Sherlock was covered with. The former army doctor had lost his stubborn fight to try and stay awake hours ago while sitting beside a sleeping Sherlock Holmes and a watchful English Pointer who had taken residence on the other half of the bed, lying right beside the Consulting Detective. The last hours had been a madhouse, to put it mildly.

Shortly after calling Mycroft for the tools he needed to take care of the bullet wound, Greg Lestrade arrived, bringing not only news about Sebastian Moran being taken into custody by the elder Holmes brother but also the things John requested.

Mycroft knew better than to show up personally while Sherlock was still awake. It had been over a year and for now no one knew what exactly the Consulting Detective had been gone through, but no one fancied the idea of taking the risk with Sherlock's already battered condition that he might get upset or agitated.

Greg stayed as a means of support in the living room while John vanished back inside Sherlock's room with a scarce "thanks" towards the understanding D.I. He immediately put Sherlock on sedative, cleaned the necessary areas once more and started the straining task of getting rid of the bullet, a practice he would have been unable to execute under normal circumstances because of the tremors in his hand. However, he was once more high on adrenaline because of the dangerous condition his best friend was in. His hands were calm and steady and before he knew it the cursed bullet was out, the wound cleaned, stitched and bandaged.

Afterwards he gave the passed out Consulting Detective the shots needed against infection and the already dangerous fever, hoping to whoever listened that it would be enough. He did not wish to put the injured man on drip-feed; it would be one more thing he would have to request Mycroft to organise.

When John was hundred and fifty percent certain that everything was cleaned and protected, he finally allowed Watson to move from her place and lie down on the bed beside the unconscious Sherlock.

Tired and still feeling a bit stressed, the former army doctor returned to the living room to talk to Greg, only to find Mycroft had joined the party as well.

"How is he", the elder Holmes brother enquired before John could even close his mouth. Shaking his head slightly to clear his befuddled mind, the doctor took a deep sigh.

"As stable as he can be under circumstances", he answered bluntly. "His fever is still too high for my liking and the blood loss was extreme, but as far as my medical judgement is concerned, he is not in need for a transfusion just yet. It all depends how he fares in the next 24 hours, how his body fights the fever and if there had been any traces of infection already before I gave him the shots. For now all we can do is watch and hope for the best."

"I'll instruct my people to keep some of the more drastic medical equipment you mentioned ready as well as some donor blood of his blood type", Mycroft said after a nod. His eyes were serious, though giving away no further insights of his feelings at the situation. Greg Lestrade was less discrete. He looked worried, but did not utter any comment to inquire further input.

Instead the three men started to talk about the current situation, updating John about Moran and the conclusion of the police involvement. Mycroft had worked a small miracle once more, taking the whole case away which certainly caused a lot of bad blood from police side, though it was done cleverly enough that no one questioned the details. After their talk John went down to retrieve the purchases from Mrs. Hudson and explain part of the situation to her. He left out the true identity of his patient for now, because she was worried enough as it was about the condition of his injured friend. Besides he wanted Sherlock to be well enough to face the music himself, when he finally told her the truth.

By the time he was done with his landlady and both Mycroft and Greg left, John felt ready to collapse from exhaustion, though of course he refused to give in. Instead he returned inside Sherlock's bedroom, checking the Consulting Detective's condition. To his utter relief, Sherlock's temperature had dropped if only slightly. Still, it was a good sign, fuelling his hope that everything would turn out all right.

The former army doctor had taken his seat besides Sherlock, determined to stay and watch the man sleep off the sedatives while mulling over some of his thoughts. However, as soon as it registered in his mind that Sherlock would likely recover, John had lost the fight against his body's need for rest. He had fallen asleep right besides Sherlock and not woken again for hours.

He jerked awake only when at one point Watson raised from her place beside Sherlock to wander into the kitchen where John long ago had stored feeding dishes for the dog, which were currently filled with fresh water and some food that Mrs. Hudson had brought.

Awake once more, the former army doctor stared down at Sherlock's sleeping face. He looked peaceful in sleep now, and thankfully a little bit healthier than before he had fallen asleep, though he feared that this might be wishful thinking on his side. However he felt himself reassured when he checked the other's temperature and found it slightly lowered; a good sign.

Breathing a sigh of relief, John allowed his thoughts to expand from his worries about Sherlock's current condition towards analysing their actual situation.

He knew they still had a long way to go. There were explanations to be given, only just discovered feelings to be sorted out and prospects of a rather trying tedious recovery to look forward to. After all, it was well known that Sherlock hated to be confined to bed without any challenges for his mind to cover.

Not to mention the whole bloody affair of his still not restored name added to the fact that for the world he was supposed to be dead. Mycroft had promised to take care of the latter, but even with the power he wielded there was no way to know how long it would take before everything was solved and life could return to normal.

Nothing of that mattered this moment though. Just now John Watson could do nothing but bask in the sight of his best friend lying right in front of his eyes, cheeks slightly red from the small fever he was still suffering through, chest rising with the inhale and exhale of breath and the twitching of eyelids as the resting Consulting Detective found his way back towards consciousness.

Right here and now all John could feel was immense happiness and thankfulness when those grey-blue eyes focused on him the moment Sherlock became aware of his surroundings. The former army doctor reacted instinctively, without thinking about his actions, bending down to kiss the Consulting Detective softly on his forehead.

He smiled at Sherlock's dazed look, still befuddled from drugs. Talks, admissions and everything else could come later. Right now he simply wanted to enjoy the peace and quiet for them both.

"Welcome back, Sherlock."

And Sherlock Holmes returned his friendly greeting with a small but honest smile of his own.

**The End**

* * *

Well, this was it. Thank you all so much for following my very first BBC Sherlock story till the end. I guess this is a rather open ending but since the main idea was a silly one anyway and I still wanted a bit of freedom to explore and get a first feeling for the characters I did not want to start with the heavy romance immediately. Oh and did I mention there is a sequel already in the making? Just a short one, to be honest, one chapter only and it's still the light stuff. However, fact is the idea of the sequel came even a bit earlier than the idea of the main story. I do hope you'll consider giving that one a try as well, when it comes out.

Though for now thank you again for stopping by and especially to those who took even a bit of time to leave a comment. That is very much appreciated.


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